


The "Well-I-Never-Wanted-To-Leave-Anyway" Hatstand

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This could - loosely - be described as a sequel to <i>Rediscovered in a Graveyard</i></p><p>Sebastian had complained that Doyle was rescued before Peche could have his evil way.</p><p>Others complained about the fact Bodie and Doyle would be so dirty when they had sex -its the eighteenth century, go figure...</p><p>This piece of silliness was my response</p>
            </blockquote>





	The "Well-I-Never-Wanted-To-Leave-Anyway" Hatstand

The "Well-I-Never-Wanted-To-Leave-Anyway" Hatstand  
or—Blind As a Bat and Twice as Stupid  
or—Thing My Mother Should Have Told Me  
or—Three and a Half Feet of Delight

 

 

Doyle stared with heavy-lidded languor into Pêche's passion-clouded eyes and, smilingly, opened his arms. It was July 13th, 1789.

The happiest day of his life.

He felt himself retaken in strong, possessive arms; a warm mouth found his. Doyle melted into the embrace, offering his meagre all.

At last his dreams had come true; the sweet mystery of life was about to be revealed to him. Thirty-eight was a _little_ late in life to be sure... The sweet ache in his loins intensified - it was no good, he thought desperately, he couldn't continue to wear trousers this tight. Art was a hard taskmaster; sometimes it demanded too much of a man.

Incandescent with the joy of being with his beloved, Doyle's lips shyly parted in response to the insistent pressure.

A lightning flash of coherent thought penetrated his passion-fogged brain. Something was terribly wrong about this. How could he hope to stare into his beloved's face - save in a dream.

Doyle awoke and found his lack of vision all too real, as were the hands exploring his rounded contours.

"Ray?"

"I knew it," moaned Doyle, disappointment searing through him. "Will you just - " He tore himself free, scowling ferociously. "Bodie, if I have to tell you one more time - "

"But you promised me...13th July, you said," Bodie reminded pathetically, pausing to scratch his lice-ridden head. Success! Sidetracked, he gleefully cracked an unwanted lodger between his grimy fingernails.

Doyle gave an artistic shudder. His cell-mate had this distressing streak of coarseness... Doyle couldn't imagine where he got it from. (A faint cry echoed in his ears - "Author?" he queried mentally.)

Then his better nature prevailed. "I know, it will not be for much longer," he comforted. Really, he could understand how hard it must be for Bodie, but Doyle did not see why he should apologise for his own compulsively attractive persona.

Bodie gave the smug, flawed face an unseen look of dislike, noting that his cell-mate's eyes were the same shade of green as that adorning the bread crust he had been saving. He resumed his adoration of Doyle's best (and only) asset.

Sublimely unconscious, Doyle waffled on. "Just one more night, that is all, Bodie. For Pêche promised me - a whole twelve hours. I have been preparing for them for months now. A night to cherish in one's mind for years to come; a night united on the astral plane, our twin souls entwining, meeting as one flesh - "

"Eh?"

Not for the first time, Bodie was confused. But at least Ray was speaking English again. His cell-mate, always a complex individual, had taken to the classics at one time. Not that they hadn't had fun with Latin until Doyle had got his syntax right, remembered Bodie fondly. He reached for Doyle again, only to have his hands smacked away.

"When Pêche fucks me legless," explained Doyle, opting for brutal frankness.

What was the point, he thought in despair. Hours he had spent on that line - true it didn't rhyme or scan, but - "I'll be back," he consoled into the disconsolate silence, "and then it'll be your turn."

"Oh, thanks," mumbled Bodie, unimpressed. "You're sure you can spare the time?" He hastened onwards before Doyle could answer that. His cell-mate had a distressing tendency to take everything literally.

"I even cleaned my teeth especially for you," he mourned, still lusting after that vulnerable frame.

Doyle was touched.

It must be Pêche; he would recognise those fingernails anywhere.

With a cry of delight, Doyle threw himself at the gaoler. He missed. Picking himself out of the straw, he persevered - he was a professional. Trying to wrap his arms around the bulky figure he found, disconcertingly, something he had not been expecting this early in the proceedings. His eyes opened. Something slick, smooth and hard, it pressed against him in sharp demand.

Delicately Doyle traced the impressive length with his slim fingers, his expression one of awe mingled with a trace of apprehension. Perhaps he should have let Bodie take him on a trial run after all.

The wry smile that had appeared on the gaoler's face was the only sign Pêche gave that the exploration was moving him in any way.

Bodie, sensing that he had been forgotten, had taken refuge in the unpolluted corner of the cell and was sulking, his lower lip jutting in a mutinous pout. He eyed the well endowed gaoler with wistful longing and felt a stirring of astonished delight as his gaze was held.

Pêche, glancing from Doyle's vacant-faced but thin-boned elegance to Bodie's suave strength was in something of a quandary, spoilt for choice. His expression (and only his expression) softened as he saw the powerful body artlessly displayed as Bodie ripped his last item of clothing free (with the exception of his vest) and made a valiant effort to suck in his belly; his skin was a pleasing shade of grey, save for his puce face.

There was a moment of wordless communication.

Murmuring deep in his throat at the heavy weight cradled in his hands, Doyle staggered a little as Pêche unfastened his truncheon, prepared to humour this fragile man and leave him with what he so obviously coveted. He suspended it from a wall sconce and smiled over Doyle's bowed head to the man beyond him.

An answering smile lighting his own face, Bodie took the gaoler's warm (insert your own preference here; I think ‘hand' is the most feasible myself) in a warm clasp. Moving as one, Bodie and Pêche tiptoed away from the cell.

It took Doyle another five minutes of refined exploration to realise the magnitude of his mistake; it was the chain around the top of the truncheon that did it although at first he had believed that Pêche was merely overcoming the force of gravity.

The silence of the cell seemed very loud. Doyle wheeled around, startled and afraid, and fell into the polluted corner of the cell. By the time he had cleaned himself off, he realised that he was alone.

His lips trembling, his eyes too bright, Doyle gave a grief-stricken sigh. Abandoning his prize, he settled down to a night of solitary vice, determined to impress his erstwhile companion somehow.

His lack of vision proved a severe impediment. After several false starts Doyle found the object of his desire. Warm flesh cradled in his palm, Doyle gave a soft sigh. Now he had it, what was he supposed to do with it, he wondered, puzzled.

Some oft-repeated advice returned to him.

Twenty-five minutes later, skin sweat-slicked, exhausted in body and spirit, Doyle was prepared to concede that Bodie had been correct all along. It wouldn't reach.

Not knowing what else to do, Doyle took his helpless, hurt feelings to bed along with his dandruff, halitosis, body lice, crabs, piles, ingrowing toenails...

One day, was his last waking thought. One day Pêche would be his.

He hoped, piously, that he would know what to do with him.


End file.
